


Healing the Healer

by OceanTheSoulRebel



Series: A Healing Touch [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: "cuddling", (yet), Fenris doing the ghost hand, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Well - Freeform, because Fenris isn't a cuddler, blood and injury description, canon-typical violence (brief and off-screen), post-injury cuddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-14
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-10 07:40:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15286908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OceanTheSoulRebel/pseuds/OceanTheSoulRebel
Summary: After an exhausting day full of battle and injury, Anders unintentionally runs himself ragged, failing to take care of a wound of his own. Hawke and Fenris must come to his aid.





	Healing the Healer

 

Another trip along the coast. Another bloody, blasted, absolute bastard of a trip along the coast. Slavers had fallen beneath their assembled might, not even the target of their foray into the wilds outside Kirkwall. The massive bandit camp Aveline had sent them to investigate disintegrated similarly, churning the ground red with gore by the time they finished.

None of them left those battles unscathed, the varied wounds and injuries taxing Anders’ already dwindling mana pool. His hands shook as he sent Isabela to her tent to sleep off her newly healed hurts, leaving him to the relatively flat boulder that acted as his table. Anders collapsed to his knees, and fell to the dusty earth, exhausted to the point of uncaring of the white-hot fire that burned in his chest. His staff clattered to the ground beside him. A quiet sigh pulled from him and he closed his eyes.

“Anders?  _Anders!”_

Strong hands bit into the meat of his shoulders and he was pulled upright once more. He waved them off, his arms trembling.

“Ah, fuck,  _careful—_ it’s okay, I just need to rest,” he tried to say, but the resulting huff of disapproval told him his protests likely didn’t tumble out with any grace or coherency.

“Fenris, can you bring him to the fire?” came Hawke’s voice, distorted and distant. Another grunt, and Anders opened bleary eyes to see the tense set of Fenris’ jaw in answer.

“You heard him. Come on, I don’t want to have to drag you over there,” Fenris grumbled. Gauntleted hands wrapped around his wrists and pulled, bringing Anders to waver on his shaking legs. A grunt, then his right arm was looped around Fenris’ shoulder, and they stumbled together toward the warmth of the fire.

“Maker’s balls, Anders,” Hawke groaned, “you certainly know how to scare a man.” He turned to his potion belt, frowning as he pulled out empty vials. “Hold on, maybe I have more lyrium in my pack. Fenris, can you watch him? Make sure he doesn’t hurt himself.”

“I’m not gonna–”

Fenris deposited him on a nearby log, hewn cleanly to produce a bench-like seat. “Sit, before you fall again.” He sat beside Anders with an irritated sigh. “Don’t fall off. And no… cuddling. I’ve seen how… close… you get with Isabela and Hawke when you’re tired.”

“No promises.”

In the shadows beyond the campfire Hawke rustled about in his tent, cursing loudly enough to be heard where they sat. Fenris shuffled beside him.

“You’re not supposed to work yourself empty on a mission, remember. Hawke’s orders.” His gravelly voice was low, tentative, as if he wasn’t sure he wanted to speak.

“Mmpgh,” Anders replied.  _Shove Hawke’s orders._  He slid from his seat to the ground with a painful groan, leaning against the log and Fenris’ knee.

He idly hoped the answering flinch was more a remark on the situation, not himself. Perhaps it’s too much to wish for, he thought when Fenris’ armored fingers immediately clutched at the collar of his robes.

“Mage,” he hissed, then, almost as if reconsidering, “Anders.” His fingers loosened but did not let go. “You’re going to choke on your collar.”

“Almost kind of you, Fenris, careful.” 

But he was right, the fabric had gotten caught on the flat edge of the log and pulled painfully at his throat and shoulders, irritating the already burning wound in his chest. Anders raised his hands to his clasps, batting at them ineffectively as he tried to unbutton them. Changing tactics, he instead tried to pull the offending garment off over his head, to no avail.

Anders could hear the rolling of Fenris’ eyes that undoubtedly accompanied the long-suffering sigh above him.

“If all Southern mages are as ineffective as you, perhaps you’re right when you say it would be impossible to recreate the Imperium here.”

Fenris unbuckled his gauntlets and set them on the log before moving to crouch at Anders’ right side. His lyrium-lined fingers brushed over Anders’ own while he undid the clasps, the coat gaping open easily with his efforts. Fenris’ eyes flickered up to his face for a moment before turning back to the task at hand.

“Maybe you’re actually as powerless as you try to convince me, if you can’t even undress yourself,” he murmured.

“You’ll just have to do it for me, then.”

The words were not nearly as acerbic as he’d hoped, but Fenris stilled all the same, a frown pinching his brows together.

“Why is your coat…” He trailed off, pulling the bloodstained material away from his shoulders to reveal an even bloodier shirt. “Fasta vass, mage, you’re bleeding. Profusely.”

“That explains the fainting spell,” Anders groaned. “It’s just an arrow wound. Let me die in peace.”

Fenris grunted, shoving the rest of the coat from Anders’ body before looking over his shoulder. “Hawke, bring a healing poultice, as well,” he called. “The idiot got himself hurt. And before you ask—no, it wasn’t my fault!”

“Maker dammit, Anders,” Hawke grumbled from the dark. “I can’t take you anywhere.” He emerged from the tent, a small bottle in one hand and a floating ball of mage-light in the other.

Anders spared one glance at him and turned back to see blatant disapproval on Fenris’ face, his green eyes almost aglow in the dim light.  _The reflective property of his eyes is almost as fascinating as his eyes themselves,_  Anders mused, not for the first time.

“It’s fine, I’ve seen worse.” The words were quiet, reserved, in the soothing voice he used for parents of sick children, though it did nothing for the glower that pained Fenris’ face. “I broke it off close to the skin so it didn’t get in the way. I just need to rest; I’ll take care of it later.”

“I suppose that’s supposed to be reassuring.” Fenris all but growled the words, dripping with sarcasm. “You have a blatant disregard for your own safety; how am I supposed to trust you with ours?”

Anders curled his lip in a weak sneer. “You say that like you would trust me at all.”

A flash of something—likely irritation, or outright vitriol—streaked across Fenris’ face at the words. “I—"

He broke whatever heated reply he had readied as Hawke settled opposite him at Anders’ left.

Hawke held up a small glass bottle, full of a pale green liquid, opalescent in the firelight. “It’s what I’ve got, unfortunately,” he said with an apologetic frown.

Fenris gestured impatiently toward Anders’ chest. “Get on with it, Hawke,” he hissed. “Fix him.”

Hawke unbuttoned Anders’ shirt and peeled it away from his body, the motion tearing dried blood with it.

“Fuck,” Anders breathed raggedly, eyes clenched against the pain. Hawke murmured something under his breath, and Anders could feel his cool fingers trailing lightly around the wound. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes again, staring down at Hawke’s hand on his chest.

“It’s worked deeper inside,” he muttered with mute horror. Hawke leaned forward, bringing the mage-light with him. “Andraste’s tits—the shaft isn’t even visible anymore.”

Anders watched a fresh rivulet of blood seep from the puncture. “Probably from when I fell.”

A strangled noise grit out from Hawke’s throat. “You’re so  _very_  lucky it hasn’t punctured your lung, or your heart, or your spleen, or whatever is right there.”

Hawke’s jaw set tight, warding against his own rising panic—a tell Anders had come to know early in their friendship. “Fenris, can you… do the thing?” he asked. “It’s already inflamed. I’m no healer, but if we can’t get the arrow out and get him patched up, we’re going to have some bad news to tell the folks at his clinic.”

Anders met Hawke’s eyes. “You can’t be serious.”

“Deadly,” Hawke said evenly, “just like this is. Fenris?”

Fenris had already stood up and made his way to Anders’ left. “Move behind him, and hold his arms,” he murmured to Hawke; a span of a breath found Hawke settling behind them on the log and pinning Anders’ arms with his legs.

Fenris knelt and pushed the fabric of his arm guards up past his elbows. His fingers flexed uneasily as he examined Anders’ wound. After a moment he placed his left hand on Anders’ right shoulder, short nails digging into the skin there, and Fenris lit his brands on his right arm.

He hesitated, one moment, two, before leaning back to run his hands through his hair.

“I’m going to have to… straddle you. For better leverage,” he muttered, pursing his lips.

Anders must truly be dying; he thought he saw a hint of color flush Fenris’ dark cheeks.

“I… okay,” he said dumbly. What else could he say?

With a short nod Fenris repositioned himself, his calves bracketing Anders’ thighs. His green eyes flicked up briefly to meet his gaze, just for a moment, before he took a deep breath. Fenris’ hands once more found their positions, his right hovering just before Anders’ bared chest. The lines of lyrium along his arm glowed up past his elbow.

“Don’t watch—and try not to tense,” he warned.

Anders should have taken his advice.

An instant later found Fenris wrist deep inside his chest cavity. Blood seeped from around the arrow shaft, and Anders howled at the feel of Fenris’ fingertips brushing against his ribcage, the burn of the raw lyrium beneath his flesh.

“Hawke, _Hawke, please_ , make him stop,” he begged, tears streaming unchecked down his face. The arrowhead pushed further into his chest as he thrashed, trying to buck Fenris off of him. “Fenris, stop, _no,_ please…”

 _“Be still,”_  Fenris snarled, baring sharp teeth.

“Anders, he’s trying to help,” Hawke murmured just above his ear. His fingers ran through Anders’ sweat-dampened hair while his legs tightened at his sides. “Let him do this.”

The howling turned to whimpered mewls as Fenris slowly worked the arrow free. Not soon enough was it finally pulled from his body with a sickening squelch. Fenris pressed his other hand against the wound to stem the bleeding, studying the arrowhead for a moment before tossing it aside.

“Hawke, poultice.”

Anders watched with glazed eyes as Fenris and Hawke dressed the wound, pouring the elfroot-infused potion onto a cloth produced from Hawke’s pocket. Someone’s hands urged him forward to wrap a long bandage about his chest and shoulder, holding the medication in place, and then forced the remains of the potion into his mouth.

“I never want to do that again,” Anders said hollowly, throat raw.

Fenris examined their handiwork for a moment before shuffling off his lap and moving back to Anders’ side. He shook his head idly, giving a long, exhausted sigh. “Agreed.”

Hawke stood, brows drawn sharply with worry as he looked down at them. “I’m going to see to sleeping arrangements,” he said. “I don’t want you alone, Anders, not while you’re so hurt.”

“I don’t need—”

“Just listen to him for once.” Fenris settled against the log, evidently uncaring of how close it put them. “Do it, Hawke.”

Anders’ eyes tracked Hawke’s motion back to the line of tents until he disappeared into the darkness. He groaned, his body screaming at him, and lost the battle to hold himself upright.

“Stop that.” Fenris stretched his legs out toward the fire and straightening against the log. “Quit your fidgeting, you’ll ruin the poultice.”

His grip was none too gentle but not forceful as he brought Anders to rest against his shoulder, their arms loosely linked. Fenris’ fingers clenched and relaxed rhythmically in his lap, almost in a pattern, as they nestled against each other.

“You don’t understand how exhausting it is to do that and  _not_  kill you,” he said quietly. “Fighting the lyrium. Controlling it. I was not made for fine motor control while elbow deep in viscera.” Fenris paused, drumming his fingers against his thigh slowly, methodically. “I imagine it is painful for you, but it is… excruciating, for me. I’d rather not have to do it again.”

An icy shudder ran through him, the shock and adrenaline wearing off. “It—it burned, like acid. Your hand, your lyrium. Everything.” Even the memory made him want to retch. “Sorry if I end up wasting all that effort.”

A long exhale answered him. “Don’t be sorry, just don’t die.” 

Fenris’ arm tightened around his own. They could hear Hawke rustling among the tents beyond them, in the quiet of the evening.

“Hawke would raise you back, you know, if only to kill you himself,” he deadpanned. “Then Merrill would be happy he turned to blood magic to do it, and then  _I_  would have to kill them both, just to have any sort of peace.”

“Sounds messy,” Anders agreed faintly. He chuckled at the image the words painted. “I can’t believe you just made a joke. And you’re letting me cuddle you. I really must be dying.”

Fenris huffed, stirring the loose strands of hair at Anders’ temple. “Go to sleep, idiot mage,” he said, “I did not do all that work to see it fail.”

“Ah, Fenris, I knew you had a heart, and even in your own chest, too.” Anders felt a small smile curl his lip and he let himself settle against Fenris’ side before slipping into the Fade.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on tumblr at [ocean-in-my-rebel-soul!](https://ocean-in-my-rebel-soul.tumblr.com)
> 
> Comments and concrit always appreciated! Thank you for reading!


End file.
